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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247967">Worship</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara'>aldiara</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harlots (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blasphemy, Bring Back The Porn Challenge, Church Sex, Dirty Talk, F/F, Nipple Play, Vaginal Fingering</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:35:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,799</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247967</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>All her life has been filled with psalms and the language of rapture, but there are no words that can capture this: the things their bodies are saying to each other, sacrilege and blessing both.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Violet Cross/Amelia Scanwell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Bring Back The Porn Challenge</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Worship</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Bring Back The Porn 2020. Thanks to Alsha for beta-ing!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~~~</p><p>Being with Violet reminds Amelia of prayer. </p><p>She knows that’s wrong. That there’s no worse sin than trying to string a connection between this – between Violet’s lips hot against hers, Violets fingers moving in her, Violet, oh god, so hot and wet against her – and the solemn, clean rapture of prayer, but.</p><p>Oh, but.</p><p>But the only other time Amelia has felt this pure, this perfect, this <i>transported</i>, was the first time she comprehended the true nature of God, the realisation that His love is infinite, unjudging, all-enveloping. She felt elevated then, floating, pure, perfect. </p><p>There is no rhyme or reason why she should feel this way when she is at her most impure, brought low by the flicker of Violet’s fingers, Violet’s tongue. Surely this ought to be damnation, but Amelia cannot believe it. Not when she is flying, rising over the top of the world like surely only angels can.</p><p>~~~</p><p>It’s her own fault for bringing Violet here, into this sacred space. She only meant to show her the church organ, play her a hymn to show the way the notes rise and resound sweetly in the lofty curve of the frescoed nave. She was not prepared for what it might to do Violet. To her. To them. Was not prepared for Violet to lean over and against her, her breathing gone slightly unsteady, her curly hair dropping against Amelia’s cheek. Her fingers trail slowly down Amelia’s arms, as if she was at worship herself, working her fingers down her rosary beads.  </p><p>Amelia has stopped playing minutes ago. If there is music still lingering in the swell of the church’s curving heights, echoing softly down among the pews, it’s either some trick of architecture or else Amelia’s own ears playing tricks on her. Playing an organ takes concentration, and concentration is not possible with Violet’s arm around her middle, Violet’s other hand spread wide and warm across Amelia’s exposed collarbones, tugging at her neckline.</p><p>Violet is breathing hotly in her ear. “Blimey, love,” she whispers. “Been quite a while since I was stirred in a bloody church, you minx.”</p><p>Amelia half-laughs, half-gasps. Her hands are still splayed on the organ’s keys, but they are heavy, useless, twitching; the occasional sound she elicits from them no more coordinated than the hitched sound of her own breathing. </p><p>Violet feels heavy against her back. So warm. So alive. Amelia leans into the solid embrace of her arms and the heavy cloud of her curls. </p><p>Her corset isn’t tightly laced. It doesn’t take more than a few expert tugs from Violet’s fingers to bring it loose, freeing her aching breasts. She whimpers when Violet’s palm brushes, seemingly nonchalant, over her nipples, already taut in her chemise, hardening further against Violet’s fleeting touch. </p><p>Violet swears under her breath and pulls her in closer, her free hand palming Amelia’s breasts again, casual, there then gone, even as Amelia arches her back without thinking, chasing the heated palm.</p><p>Violet indulges her, warm hand returning, cupping, stroking, until Amelia cannot help a whimper.</p><p>“What’s got you all bothered, sweetling?” Violet whispers in her ear. Her hot lips are mouthing over the shell of Amelia’s ear while she plucks at Amelia’s aching nipples. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”</p><p>Amelia has no answer; she can only writhe and arch, eyes dropping shut. She feels Violet shifting closer behind her, straddling the narrow bench, long, warm legs on either side of Amelia’s hips. It takes her an age to realise Violet had to pull up her skirts to accomplish that; once she does, all she wants is her own skirts out of the way. She wants to feel Violet without layers, the play of the strong muscles in her thighs, the smooth, dark, heated skin.</p><p>The hand is still there, leisurely teasing her cotton-covered breasts, moving between one and the other. It’s not enough. She tugs at the arm wrapped round her waist, trying to pull it up, to make that warm hand join the other. Her nipples ache and throb, so hard she feels like pulling away, even while squirming, pushing, seeking more touch, more heat, more Violet.</p><p>Violet makes a noise against her neck, rough and hot-breathed. “What do you want, love? Let me hear it.”</p><p>“T-t-touch me.” Amelia doesn’t recognise her own voice. She didn’t know, until Violet blew into her life like a tornado of silk and colour, how completely undone she could be by the demands of her own body; how a look, a touch, a smile could reduce her to a wet, needy, throbbing mess of <i>want</i>. It should make her feel powerless and dirty, surely. Instead, every time Violet looks at her with those dark, bottomless eyes of hers, all Amelia can feel is pure and right and cherished.</p><p>She turns her head against Violet’s hot lips before Violet can ask <i>“Where?”</i>, as Amelia knows she will. “Touch my tits,” she whispers, and smiles at the slight startle in Violet’s kiss, the temporary pause in her inquisitive fingers: she has not yet become accustomed to the fact that Amelia can be bold. </p><p>To her credit, it doesn’t take her long; with a low moan, Violet meets Amelia’s lips, warm, wet, and demanding, even as both her hands cup around Amelia’s small, taut breasts. Amelia whimpers into her mouth, bucking against her hands, which are, god, so hot and knowing. Thumbs flick across her hard nipples just right, the thin layer of cotton an additional ache of friction. Violet cups and teases and palms her there until Amelia is panting with need, making small, furtive, thrusting motions against Violet’s hands. She offers no protest when one of Violet’s hands drops down, gathering up her skirts, finding the slit in her petticoats with unerring precision and sinking right into her where she is hot and damp and desperate.</p><p>“Mhm,” Violet whispers when Amelia arches, bucking against her warm fingers. “So wet. D’you need it, lovey? Tell me.”</p><p>Her fingers are moving strong but slow; too slow. Amelia whimpers in frustration, her head thrown back against Violet’s shoulder. Violet is forever talking when they do this. Amelia has grown up with the power of sermon, so she knows a thing or two about words that can elevate to rapture, take you so high you float, but before Violet, she has never known that the right words could take you as surely the other way, low and writhing in desperate need, filthy and <i>wanting</i> beyond belief.</p><p>“That’s it, you beauty. Amelia. Yes. Tighten that wet quim for me. Just like that. Yes. Do you like this?” Violet crooks her fingers hard, touching her deep inside, in a place that makes Amelia moan and quiver and thrash against the invading fingers, clenching mindlessly, again and again. It feels like spending, but she’s rising still, swelling with the need inside her, aching to let go, to thrash and beg and spend.</p><p>“Imagine,” she hears Violet’s soft, low voice against her ear like a caress, “Imagine if you were playing during a service, with all the god-fearing folks down there, and I slipped in and touched you here?” She rubs her fingers in tight, merciless circles that send slivers of heated need right through Amelia’s core. “If I frigged your sweet, wet quim like this, right where you need it, hard, like this?” Amelia bites her lip, unable to forestall the long, desperate whine out of her throat, and thrusts up desperately against the clever, merciless fingers against her, inside her, matching the hot words in her ear. “I’d fuck you like this, nice and hard like you enjoy it, and wouldn’t you just wail for it, like the little slut you are? They’d all hear you down there, mind – no godly organ’s voice but yours, making those hot little noises – yes, like that, gasping my name – so everybody could hear you were being fucked and loving it.”</p><p>The world contracts to the single point of Violet’s fingers fucking into her, Violet’s body thrusting into hers, her other hand busy between her own legs, Violet’s voice whispering worshipful filth in her ear. Amelia cannot – absolutely cannot – help the guttural noise that escapes her mouth as she strains and squirms and bucks on Violet’s thrusting fingers.</p><p>“That’s it,” she hears Violet growl in her ear. “Spend for me, love. Let them all hear you. You gorgeous little whore.”</p><p>It’s that forbidden word, the word that applies to Violet but not her – but god, hasn’t she wondered, thinking about lying in the dark while some stranger’s mouth sucked on her and whispered filth in Violet’s voice – that tips her over, shuddering and tightening around Violet’s long fingers. She’s lost in delicious aftershocks while Violet gasps and sucks her neck, still fucking her while frigging herself in hard, jerky motions against Amelia’s rear. Violet bites her when she spends, her teeth hot and bright in the juncture of Amelia’s neck and shoulder. Amelia cannot quite help the belated shudder of delight that goes through her, a quiver of blissful submission, making her tighten helplessly around Violet one last time. Then she goes boneless, sinking back against the taut, muscular arch of Violet’s body, vaguely aware that she is sweaty and trembling, still shuddering helplessly when Violet pulls out of her. </p><p>Amelia blinks her eyes open, staring sightlessly at the deep, dark recess of the curved ceiling above her, where hidden saints writhe, nude and supposedly chaste. Rapture. There is no other word for it. </p><p>She floats for a bit before Violet pulls her back to earth. She’s laughing deep and hoarse against her nape before she starts to kiss her there, soft lips mouthing over the mark her teeth have surely left. “God. Sorry, love. Got carried away a bit. I didn’t mean-”</p><p>Amelia turns her head so fast it dizzies her, latching onto the soft curve of Violet’s lips. She gasps her own shuddering afterbreath into Violet’s mouth, twines leisurely with Violet’s tongue. When they come up for air, she whispers, eyes dropped close, “Don’t you dare say sorry to me. You are…” She trails off, helpless. All her life has been filled with psalms and the language of rapture, but there are no words that can capture this: the things their bodies are saying to each other, sacrilege and blessing both.</p><p>“Don’t,” she repeats instead, mouthing Violet’s lip in helpless adoration. She is still throbbing, wet, a sweet deep ache making her limbs languorous and heavy. Indubitably damned beyond repair. She cannot bring herself to care.</p><p>Violet’s lips curve against hers, a residual shudder passing through her that Amelia can feel in every fibre of her body.</p><p>“You’re something else, love,” Violet murmurs against her mouth. </p><p>Eyes closed, shaky, unhinged, worshipful, Amelia smiles back. Something else is right.</p>
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